Informalities
by irite
Summary: Over a period of nights spent together (a la "The High Road"), Zoe gets to know John better. Written for irrelevant gift exchange on tumblr, for donothavetimeforyourblah.


**This was written for the irrelevant gift exchange on tumblr, for donothavetimeforyourblah.**

**Thanks to dysprositos, who was a major help with my tense problems.**

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**20 September 2012**

Zoe Morgan had just returned from meeting with an informant inside the New York Times. She triple-locked her door behind her (her experience with the drug company had gotten to her—just a little, it's not every day that you're kidnapped) and kicked off her shoes, tossing her purse carelessly to the side and heading into the kitchen for a glass of wine.

She was humming to herself under her breath, knowing that the information she had just gotten was going to make her client _very_ happy.

Because she was distracted, not paying attention to her surroundings (_stupid, Morgan_), she completely didn't see John until she practically walked into him where he was casually seated at her kitchen table. She didn't know how he had found her; she'd moved since he had played chauffeur. She had to move often, one of the 'perks' of the job.

"What the hell? John?"

Unruffled, he replied, "Zoe. How are you?"

Frantically scrambling to regain her composure, she tried again, "What the hell? You aren't here to ask me to marry you again, are you?"

She still hadn't recovered from that, or from assisting with his protection of that nosy reporter.

He barked a laugh at that, "No, your single status is safe from me. I was bored. Thought I'd come over."

She was confused, "Can't you annoy glasses when you're bored? Why me?"

"You're awfully full of questions tonight, Zoe. Why don't you sit down?" As he talked, he gestured at the table, the movement revealing the deck of cards? and scotch?

"Let me get this straight. You're bored, so you break into my apartment—no easy feat, by the way—to play poker with me?"

"Yes" was his succinct answer.

"Okay, wow." Zoe sat down at the table, eyeing him. From what she knew of him, he never did anything without a reason, so what the hell was this?

"Here," he offered her a glass.

Needing something to get her through the evening, she accepted and knocked it back in one go. He raised an eyebrow, but poured her another glassful.

After she'd downed that one, too, she looked at him firmly, "No cigars. I'll never be able to get the smell out."

He shrugged one shoulder nonchalantly, "Whatever you say, Zoe."

"Oh, really, John?"

He let it go and began to deal. They played several hands until she could hardly keep her eyes open but was determined to not let him win.

So, it was him who finally tossed in his cards, "I've got an early morning. It was fun, Zoe."

Somehow, she _knew_ that there will be a next time, even though he had given no indication, so she stood to get his attention. "Bring the dog next time, will you?"

He quirked an eyebrow, and she turned to put their glasses in the sink. When she turned back around, he was gone without a sound.

Until she heard the front door shut, that is. It creaked like the devil, forever and always, and it made her feel a little bit better, that he's human enough to have to use the front door.

**27 September 2012**

She got home earlier than usual, as there was, surprisingly, not much going on in the city (_that never sleeps_, her mind added). Something about HR being driven underground (because nothing _that_ powerful could be eradicated by someone as foolish as Donnelly—they've met, from across a room, and he wouldn't know the 'man in a suit' if they literally ran into each other) made every other little creep in the city watch their backs more carefully.

So, she was nursing a chai latte when the intercom buzzed. "Hello."

One word, and she knew it was John. "Come on up." There were several smart remarks on the tip of her tongue about using the intercom like a civilized person instead of sneaking up the fire escape or something, but she refrained from calling them over the intercom. She didn't want John to be caught; he and glasses did good work.

A couple of minutes later, there was a knock at her front door.

She checked through the peephole first, as surreptitiously as she could, and then she opened the door to admit John. And Bear.

As soon as the door shut behind them, John unclipped the leash from Bear's collar and gave him a command in Dutch.

Bear immediately began wagging his tail, and she crouched down to let him sniff her hand before he went off to investigate her apartment.

"Happy?" John asked.

"I told you when we were married that I was going to fight you for custody of the dog. He the reason you couldn't pull your sneaky act? You used the front door and the intercom; I'm impressed. Didn't know you knew how to."

He barked a laugh, rough and deep. "No, Bear's physiology is not exactly conducive to climbing in windows."

"Figured."

"Anyway, he's technically my dog, but he spends most of his time with Harold."

It took her a minute to compute that Harold was glasses, because she was all too familiar with aliases—she didn't trust that when John called him 'Harold,' it was his real name.

And it made her smile because John had just unintentionally (or intentionally, she could never tell with him) given her a piece of the puzzle.

Bear finished his inspection of the apartment and returned to sit at John's feet, panting slightly.

"Can I have a dish? He's thirsty," John reached down to run a hand over the dog's ears.

"Sure," Zoe started for the kitchen expecting that they would follow. She pulled a shallow bowl from the cupboard and put it under the faucet, filling it up.

She bent over to put it on the ground, and with another command from John, Bear walked over to drink.

John explained, "He's trained to not take anything from anyone but his handlers without permission. Too easy to poison otherwise."

And Zoe was used to criminals and the shady gray areas between right and wrong, but a dog was not a weapon and hearing that made her sad, just a little.

Instead of telling John that, though, she moved to another cabinet and pulled out a bottle and two glasses. "Figured I could provide the refreshments tonight."

There was a wry twist to John's lips when he responded, "Not tonight. I'm only off duty for a little while."

"Ah. Tea?"

"Sure."

Zoe retrieved her mug from the living room and refilled it, setting it off to the side as she prepared another mug and tea-bag. She'd be lying if she said that John's eyes weren't on her movements, and that he didn't wait for her to stick a spoon in the tea and take a quick taste. She was making sure it was made correctly; he was making sure she hadn't poisoned it.

They drank their tea and played two hands; he won one, she the other.

At 9:55 PM exactly, he whistled to Bear, clipped his leash on, said "Thank you," and was out the door.

She cleaned up and went to bed early.

**4 October 2012**

The day had, to use the vernacular, sucked. Zoe'd been supposed to meet with an informant, but when she got there, he was dead. One clean gunshot wound to the head. She had checked the area carefully, her hand wrapped around the taser in her purse, and satisfied that she wasn't going to be jumped, called the police from a payphone with a scarf over her hair and her voice disguised.

Composed, she'd taken a seat at the outdoor cafe across the street from the alley where the informant's body lay, and ordered a coffee and muffin, a newspaper at hand.

John's "friend," Carter, was one of the first responders on the scene, and coolly, Zoe shook out the paper and hid her face behind it, not wanting to be recognized. So much of her job depended on her anonymity.

She wasn't, and she waited around until the body was taken out under a sheet before walking away.

Once she was certain she was safe (and not being followed), she called another of her sources, offering double for the information she needed.

He had delivered late that afternoon, and she paid him triple just so he would keep his mouth shut. Her client was displeased with how long it had taken to get the information, and had chewed her out over the phone. Normally that wouldn't bother her, but today was an exception.

So when she got home that evening, all she wanted to do was take a long, hot bath and read a tawdry paperback.

John had other plans, though, as he walked around the corner a few minutes after she'd slumped into the corner of the couch like he owned the place.

Maybe, in a way, he did. Glasses was rich, and that money had to come from _somewhere_.

He had a flat box under his arm, and he offered it to her wordlessly. She was tempted to throw it at his head, but she refrained.

"Backgammon?" she asked instead.

"Heard you had a bad day," was his calm response. "Thought you could do with a change of pace."

Zoe took a deep breath and stood up. "Let me put on something more comfortable." Her dress was skin-tight, and while it usually felt like her armor, today it just felt restrictive.

"I'll go get set up."

He walked towards the kitchen, and she went into her bedroom. Some hidden instinct was screaming for her to lock the door, and she did.

Her face washed and her clothes changed, she stood straight and left the room.

He had the board set up and a chair pulled out for her at the kitchen table. However, instead of a glass of scotch, there was an ice cream sundae on her side of the table.

She was so busy looking at it that she completely missed his reaction to her outfit—sweats and a too-big t-shirt filched from her dad when she was a teenager. He was unable to conceal his surprise.

Frankly, stress eating was an urge she'd been suppressing all day, and so she dove right in, picking up the spoon and taking an indulgent bite of the ice cream.

John watched her reaction, and apparently satisfied, smiled.

"Okay, you get points for that, but make your move already," she advised. Couldn't have him getting too much of a big head, after all.

He made his move, and she made hers, and after three long games (and the ice cream), she felt much better.

"Goodnight," he said as he packed up the board.

He left, and she crawled into bed after brushing her teeth, feeling as though the day might not have been such a waste after all.

**11 October 2012**

He didn't come. She waited up until 11 PM, the police scanner she'd rigged (years ago, not just so she could keep an ear out for John) crackling in the corner and the TV news on mute.

But there was nothing to be heard, nothing to give any indication that he was alive or dead. Zoe's not stupid, knows that calling the only number she had for him would either put him in danger or wake up a random stranger.

She slept fitfully that night.

**12 October 2012**

There was a steaming cup of coffee and a muffin in a brown paper bag tucked up against the bottom of her door frame when she left the apartment that morning, and she thought for a minute that it looked like an apology.

She threw them both in the trash and held her back ramrod straight as she left the building.

**18 October 2012**

She didn't expect him that night, had planned to do some online shopping and eat Chinese take-out. De-stress.

So when the intercom buzzed, she was _so_ tempted to leave it be, pretend like she wasn't at home.

In the end, her sense of courtesy won out and she answered the third buzz with a harsh "What."

"Hello, Zoe, can we come up?" John sounded saccharine sweet, and she inferred that he must not be alone; one of her neighbors must have company.

"Sure thing," she said as she admitted him.

He'd asked about 'we,' and she was curious about who else would be with him. However, her curiosity was not enough to get her to take off the large sweatshirt she wore over loose jeans.

As it turned out, 'we' meant John and Bear, who seemed glad to see her. John, on the other hand...

"You threw it away."

It took her a minute to track what he was talking about because she hadn't been sure that was from him. "You mean the food someone left on my doorstep? Because I don't eat things like that."

"You do. I've seen you." He almost sounded confused, like something was not computing properly.

"I eat that kind of food, but not when it's been left out on my welcome mat like something the cat dragged in. Who _knows_ what could have been in it? I've been drugged and foiled two poisoning attempts, John. I'm not stupid. My job's not as dangerous as yours, in that I'm not shot at on a regular basis, but I have powerful enemies."

"I just," and he looks almost embarrassed, "hadn't thought about it like that."

"You tend to think of all civilians as being perfectly safe and protected, living comfortably in their safe little bubble. Until they need the great 'man in a suit's' protection." She made sure to infuse her voice with as much sarcasm as possible. "And I'm not out fighting crime like some deranged version of Batman, so I must always be completely at ease."

He almost...squirmed a little, like he didn't know quite what to say.

"Go on, I'm not in the mood."

Obediently, he recalled Bear to his side and left, throwing a puzzled glance over his shoulder at her on his way out.

She didn't give a damn, and she spent twice as much as she had been planning to that night.

**25 October 2012**

He knocked on the door that evening, bringing her a box of chocolate and an apologetic smile.

She'd had a fruitful day and was feeling generous, so she let him in, and they ate the chocolates while playing poker.

He swore up, down, and sideways that he wasn't letting her win, and she halfway even believed him. But there was no denying that she felt so much better about him that she apologized as he was leaving that night.

"Look, John, I'm sorry. I took my problems out on you last week, and that wasn't cool."

"Don't worry about it."

**1 November 2012**

Zoe's landline rang just as she stepped through the door, and she dove to find it, frantically rooting through piles of clean clothes she had been meaning to put away for days.

When she finally, breathlessly, put it to her ear, John's voice said hastily, "Can't make it tonight, sorry."

"Okay," she said slowly, but then she registered that he had hung up. She figured she should be glad she had heard from him at all, but she went to the gym that night and pushed herself to her limit on the treadmill just to have something to occupy her mind.

**8 November 2012**

There's an unobtrusive note stuck to the fridge when she walks into the kitchen to get a glass of water after dumping her purse, home from work a little early.

Curiously, she opened it and inside there was an index card with neat handwriting, "Zoe, I'll pick you up at 6:30. Be hungry."

No signature, but there was only one man brazen enough to break into her apartment and leave her a note.

She got ready and curled into a chair at 6:20, turning the TV on low to wait. He didn't disappoint, the intercom chiming just as the clock on the wall ticked over to 6:30.

"Yes?"

"Come on down," he said.

She did, and he opened the door of the fancy black car she remembered seeing him use on his "date" with the reporter. She stepped neatly into the passenger's seat despite her high heels, and let him choose the radio station.

After he refused to tell her where they were going, she was quiet, content to listen to the classic rock (who'd have guessed?).

But somehow she wasn't surprised when they pulled up in front of her favorite Thai place.

Dinner went well, and she successfully managed to steer the conversation around the big elephant in the room, namely their jobs.

They discovered a similar taste in books, but disagreed about movies. He liked fantasy movies, something that he could watch and not think about reality for a few hours, while she preferred movies that at least seemed real (and, no, John, they were not all romances, thank you very much).

He took her home but when she invited him up he said he had somewhere else to be, and she didn't mind that too much. Her work was never truly over, either.

**15 November 2012**

He brought over whiskey that night, and played poker like he had nothing to lose. She guessed that he had a rough day, but she also figured that he wouldn't want to talk about it.

She kept her conversation down to a minimum, mostly talking about the game and "would you like a refill?"

When he left, she accompanied him down to the lobby and made sure he got in a cab, not quite trusting him not to do something stupid.

Right before she shut the door, she told him quietly, "John, I'm going to be out of town next week for the holiday, so I'll see you after then."

He nodded back, so she slammed the door shut and smiled at the doorman, taking the elevator back up to her place.

**29 November 2012**

He dragged in at almost midnight, looking exhausted. She'd picked up a book at nine, thinking his job had taken precedent, but not wanting to go to bed just in case there was a chance of him coming by. She'd promised herself that she'd go to bed at midnight, though.

Wordlessly, she pointed to the couch and went to get him a blanket. He was all but asleep by the time she came back in, and he mumbled a thank you as she unceremoniously dropped the blanket over his sleeping body.

**30 November 2012**

The blanket was neatly folded over the arm of the couch when she woke up, and there was a post-it (taken from her desk but it was too early to care) on top that said "Thanks."

Her coffeemaker had been started, too.

**6 December 2012**

He left a note in her mailbox, asking to reschedule for next week, and she nodded to the nearest security camera that she could see, folding the note up to destroy later.

When she saw a news report about a Little League game in the park (_must've been a slow news day_), and there was a flash of brown-and-black dog in the background, running up to a tall, blurry man in a dark suit, she couldn't help but smile.

She went to bed that night smiling.

**13 December 2012**

No note, no call, no nothing, and her day hadn't been all that great either, what with the FBI descending on a bank and alarming a few of her people in the neighborhood.

But the practical part of her brain pointed out that he was probably having to lay low since Donnelly had been in on the bank roundup.

**14 December 2012**

Her cell rang with an unlisted number and she answered it warily, "Morgan."

"Ms. Morgan. Could we meet?"

It took her a minute to place the voice, and then she asked, "Harold?"

"Yes. Meet me at the bookstore a little ways down your street?"

"Sure."

_Click_.

That had to be one of the weirdest conversations she'd ever had, but she quickly pulled on some comfortable shoes and grabbed her purse.

Harold was hovering near the entrance, and she made her way over to him.

"What the hell is going on?"

"Ms. Morgan. Did you hear about the FBI at the bank yesterday?"

That's an odd question, everyone in the city had heard about that. "Yeah."

"What they aren't putting on the news is the fact that they apprehended four men, all of whom are suspected of being the 'man in the suit.' John is one of them. I'm sorry, I know you two have been getting together often."

"Wow. That's... Wait, why are you here? Shouldn't you be doing something about this?"

"I am as anxious as you are, Ms. Morgan, but I cannot remove John without great suspicion at this time. I have chosen to continue our work instead because that is what he would want."

And he was right, and the smug little bastard probably knew it too. "Good. Thanks for telling me." Her conscience was niggling at her, and she had to add, "Let me know if I can help."

"I most certainly shall. Have a nice day, Ms. Morgan."

She stormed straight to the gym and ran on the treadmill until she couldn't feel her legs anymore, then somehow made it back to her apartment and got satisfyingly drunk.

**15 December 2012**

She woke up with a mild hangover, and started planning to move. She shouldn't have stayed in one place for so long anyway.

And if she moved into one of the highest security places in New York, one where the windows were sealed shut and visitors had to pass through three security checks, she told herself it meant nothing but that she was safety conscious.


End file.
